The Tales of Two Brothers
by OneConfusedNewsie
Summary: A collection of one shots revolving around two brothers. Read to find out who! Please read and review! Summaries for each ficlet are at the beginning of each chapter.
1. Regretful Decisions

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Summary: When seeing his older brother in the newspapers, Chris recalls the night that changed everything. The night his brother decided to leave, giving Chris the choice to come with him or stay. The night Chris would regret the rest of his life.

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When I saw James's picture in the paper I couldn't believe my eyes. I didn't think he had what it took to live on the streets. For so long I had thought he was dead, but there he was, staring me in the face. Full of pride, full of rapture, full of hope. Even though the picture was black and white, I could see the sparkle in his crystal blue eyes. The glint of happiness that was absent his entire childhood. Memories of before he left came flooding back; overwhelming me with despair and regret. There was one night that stood out above the rest, the night that changed everything.  
  
I remember standing at the kitchen sink washing the few dishes from our meager dinner. I began to daydream about a better life, a life away from my father, a life away from this city, a life where my brother and I were happy. As my thoughts drifted farther from my task, my grasp on the plate loosened and the plate slipped through my fingers. I watched in horror as it shattered into a million shards of glass on the floor. I knelt down and began scooping up the debris, hoping to clean the mess before Father came in to interrogate what had provoked the sound. The tiny remains began to pierce my flesh deeper and deeper, until blood was flowing profusely down my forearms. Soon part of the floor was covered with my blood strewn with the glass. Tears began to well up in my eyes but I refused to cry. Crying would only draw Father to the kitchen faster.  
  
I heard footsteps coming down the hall and I froze in panic. I just sat on the ground, covered in blood and glass, my watering eyes fixated on the door. James stepped through the door and I felt my body relax, exhaling a breath that I could have sworn I had been holding for a lifetime. He knelt besides me, wiping the tears I had been trying not to shed, and comforted me. He whispered words of assurance in my ear and hugged me tight, not noticing the crimson liquid ruining his favorite shirt. He told me to clean myself up and while I did, he began picking up the broken glass.  
  
I was beginning to think everything would be okay. That father had not noticed my ruckus and would never know what had happened. When night had come I was positive I had gotten away with it. James came into my room to say goodnight and leaned down to kiss my forehead. He never did. Father stormed into my room, fists held high in fury. He screamed so loud and so fast I couldn't understand what he was saying. I didn't need to and neither did James. We knew it was about the plate, and I knew tonight would be long and painful.  


James stood up and looked Father in the eye, and said it was him who broke the dish. Father eyed him suspiciously as to make sure he wasn't about to beat the wrong child. He didn't really care who he beat though; I think he liked the way our skin felt against his. The way the dark blue, black, and sometimes a greenish brown mixed together to form our bruises. The authority he felt when we cowered in his presence. Tonight was different though; tonight was the night Father wouldn't feel authority over James. Tonight was the night James's skin wouldn't turn hideous colors of black and blue; tonight was the night James would fight back.  
  
Father began to castigate James just as he did every night. I brought my knees to my chest and curled into the smallest ball I could manage. The only thing I hated more than having to watch my big brother be battered was having to listen to it. I began to sing softly to myself but the sound of skin on skin kept overpowering my near silent voice. My volume increased until I was rocking back and forth singing at a normal intensity. My father screamed something at me, but I wasn't listening. He grabbed my wrist and pulled me to my feet. His hand went back in slow motion and I watched petrified, as it came towards me, finally connecting with my cheek.  
  
That was when James finally snapped. He tackled Father to the ground and began to strike him. James's usual calm face was replaced with animosity; his customary apathetic eyes filled with ardent hatred. I curled back into my ball and cried. My tears contorted their figures and my moans camouflaged their struggle. Then as suddenly as the strife started, it ceased. I kept my eyes shut; I didn't need to uncover James's unconscious or even dead body lying on the floor in my room. I didn't need to face the austerity of the situation. I jumped when a hand touched my shoulder. I looked up to find James smiling mournfully at me. He took me into his arms and condoled me for the second time that night.  
  
When he left home, he asked me to go with him. I said no. I didn't think he could survive on the streets, and I knew I wouldn't. I told him he would get farther in life by staying here than by running away and becoming a newsie, but I was wrong. James became one of the most respected and well know newsie in all of New York, the famous Spot Conlon. Standing up to Pulitzer and Hearst, just like he had to our father. He is out there having the time of his life, and me, well I'm sitting in my bedroom, admiring his picture while nursing the fresh bruises from Father. The only thing running through my mind is what I gave up when I turned him down that night. I gave up my happiness, my future, and my brother.  
  
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A/N: I'm actually pretty happy with how this turned out. I hope you guys like it as much as I do! Review and tell me what you think! Good or bad, I wanna know! 


	2. Nervous Speculations

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Summary: On the walk to Brooklyn to ask Spot for help with the strike, Jack worries of the outcome of his visit. He reminisced the days when him and Spot were inseperatable, the days when they were James Conlon and Francis Sullivan.

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As David, Boots, and I left the familiar streets of Manhattan, I couldn't help but feel my spirits diminish. I knew Spot wouldn't help aid the strike; he wouldn't help anyone who associated with me. I remembered when Spot became a newsie. He was a completely different person; back then he was James Conlon; back when I was Francis Sullivan.

Not many know it, but Spot wasn't always a Brooklyn newsie, he was a Manhattan one first. I know what you're thinking, Spot's too tough and uncaring to be a Manhattan newsie. But truth be told, Mr. Apathetic wasn't always like this. He used to care, used to care a lot.

Spot and I met on the streets before we even knew what newsies were. He had only been on the streets for about a week, and evidently had no comprehension of how dangerous they were. We had a lot in common the day we met; both young, broke, and in need of a friend. 

It was near midnight and I was wandering around hoping to find some drunk and maybe get away with his wallet. I heard someone sobbing down an alleyway and in hope of money or food, I crept up to my next victim. That's when I first laid eyes on James Conlon. He was all beat up, pale, and skinny as hell. My heart broke at the sight of him, so I left my hidings in the shadows and sat down next to him. 

He was so absorbed in whatever he was crying about he didn't even acknowledge my presence. "What's da mattah kid?" I had asked, even though he looked about my age. 

He looked up at me, eyes bloodshot and watery, "I just made the biggest mistake of my life." I cocked an eyebrow and waited for him to continue. "I just left my home and now I'm starting to regret it."

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Ah. A runaway, I thought to myself. "Why don't ya go home den?" I asked, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

He looked at me, eyes wide, "Oh. I can't go back. Father would kill me."

I furrowed my brow in confusion, "Den why ya regret leavin'?"

"I left my brother there. Father isn't going to make his life pleasant. Father will beat him till the day that he dies," the boy said a tear streaking his dirty face.

I gave him a reassuring smile, "Why don't we go get 'em?"

The boy shook his head furiously, "He won't leave."

I pursed my lips, this was a difficult situation. "Look, what's your name?"

The boy stuck out his hand, "James Conlon."

I shook it, smiling, "Francis Sullivan."

We became good friends that night. He told me about his bastard of a father, and I told him about mine. I told him about life on the streets and he told me about Christopher, his brother. We shared stories good and bad, basically spilling our guts to a stranger. But soon the past wouldn't matter, because now we had each other.

Boots stopped at the Brooklyn Bridge, forcing me out of my thoughts, and looked over the edge. We bent over the rail and screamed, our voices echoing around us, making us feel powerful and larger than life. After a few words between us we set off at a brisk walk, silence engulfing us, leaving us to our thoughts.

Spot and I became partners in crime, stealing what we needed to survive. We were surviving and having a blast while we did it. Spot's memories of Chris faded and he talked of him less and less till nothing more was said of him. Chris had become part of Spot's past, part of something insignificant and forgotten.

We soon found ourselves in the refuge for stealing a loaf of bread. In there we learned what hard work and respect were. When released Spot and I made a pact to start clean and actually work for a living. We started a brand new life with new names and new goals. That was when Jack Kelly and Spot Conlon became newsies. Hard working young men who didn't have a worry in the world and always a friend by their side.

Then we got a new newsie. His name was Fruit. A lad small for his age, immediately took up Spot as his roll model. The two became so close you would've thought they were brothers. I should've realized Spot was trying to make up for his mistake with Chris, but I was too young and carefree to care about the past. Winter came and Fruit became extremely ill and eventually bed ridden. Spot worked as harder than ever that winter, trying to make enough money for himself and Fruit, but it made no difference. Fruit passed away January 6th, and Spot was never the same.

He became depressed and never said more than two words to anyone. He stopped selling papers and began stealing again. His new morals and values lost in a sea of depression and sorrow. I decided to confront him and try and fix his ways but instead I got mad, telling him to leave Manhattan if he was going to be a scab. He said nothing but stared me in the eye. "So be it," was all he said as he grabbed his belongings and left.

Years passed and I became leader of Manhattan and him of Brooklyn. I was known as the charming leader who cared for all, and Spot was known as the stone-eyed leader who could get the job done. And that's where I am now. Going to an old friend for a favor. Some one I hadn't spoken to in years. 

I lied when I told the newsies Spot didn't make me nervous, I was about to soil myself thinking about seeing him again. But I didn't fear Spot for the same reason as Boot and Dave did. I feared that he wouldn't forgive me; nervous that he wouldn't help out me and the newsies in a time in need.

I walked up through a sea of Brooklyn newsies, a pit in my stomach growing by the second. I spotted Spot on a pile of crates. He jumped down smirking, "Well, if it ain't Jack be nimble, Jack be quick."

Relief spread throughout my body like a tidal wave; maybe Spot hadn't changed that much, maybe he would help. I smirked hiding my emotions behind a mask, just as he was doing. I smirked, knowing he could see right through my mask, just as I could him, "I see you moved up in the world, Spot. Got a river view and everything."

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A/N: Okey dokey! Time to review! ^_^ Please?!


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